Sonata in G, Interlude
by Cantoris
Summary: Transition chapters between Mvt IV and Mvt V of my series. Before she can move on with her life, Rachel Gideon has to work toward healing her mind and body after Foyet's attack and also healing her relationships with Hotch, Reid, and Michael.
1. Tonic

_Interlude-a short piece of music that is played between the parts of a longer one_

_Tonic: Graduation_

Pomp and Circumstance.

High school graduation is one of those milestone moments in just about everyone's life, no matter where you fall in your class standing. You either looked forward to high school ending or moving on from high school.

Or some combination of both.

On the morning of _my_ high school graduation, I felt apathetic more than anything else. I just wanted the whole debacle to be over with so that I could put high school and its associated memories and events behind me. I knew that I couldn't forget everything, and I didn't want to. I just wanted to stop being the walking freak show.

Returning to school after recovering from my attack by George Foyet gained me an unhealthy amount of attention and gossip. People whispered behind my back, pointed me out in the hallways to their friends…some even walked up to me and asked to see my scars.

I could have taken my finals early and then just showed up for graduation as Principal Finley offered me, but I had decided to get the novelty of my return out of the way in school so that it wouldn't be as bad at the ceremony itself.

Wandering around the school's front lawn to pick up my cap and gown, check in, and find my place in the line up, I kicked myself for my optimistic delusions.

"What do you think it was like?"

"I would be so scared."

"He's still out there, right?"

It wasn't even that any of the comments were cruel, I just was sick and tired of people talking about me and my life like it was reality TV.

"Five hours and counting," Michael muttered in my ear.

With our last names—Garrett and Gideon—we were assigned to the same row of bleachers, waiting for the procession to start. Michael was sitting on the first row, but leaned back into the second. Impervious to my classmates' comments, I was settled between Michael's legs on the bench, using him as support. Physical and emotional.

"Five?" I asked him.

"Who knows how long the speeches are going to last," he pointed out in resignation.

I groaned. "Crap."

Michael squeezed me a little tighter; I could feel him glare at the nearby gawkers over my shoulder. Most everyone avoided us after that, at least until it was time to line up for the grand procession. Will Gerhard took his place between Michael and I and I checked my cap and gown one last time before I heard the familiar opening chords of Pomp and Circumstance.

I walked forward, just one in a long line of black-robed teenagers about to end a long chapter of our lives. Given the crowd of parents, friends, teachers, and other family members, I couldn't immediately spot Hotch, Garcia, or Reid. It wasn't until we were all seated and enduring the first speech from Principal Finley that I finally saw them.

And then I immediately wondered how I could have missed Garcia's bright purple, orange, and white patterned dress with the matching pom-pom barrettes in her hair. I smiled to myself, but then sobered when I spotted Reid right next to her, seated on the end of the row with his crutches propped up next to him.

Hotch and I weren't the only ones who had landed up in the hospital and recovering from surgeries on the same day. While on a case, Reid had been shot in the knee. He and I hadn't seen much of each other since we had both been discharged, so I was really happy to see him. It almost made graduation worth it.

Sad to say, I zoned out during most of the ceremony. Sure, I enjoyed watching the video put together by a group of other seniors mostly for the clips from Annie rehearsals. And then finally, it was time to get our diplomas. There was definitely a hint of pity in Principal Finley's eyes when she shook my hand and handed the roll of paper to me, but since she meant well, I didn't resent her for it.

My next bit of luck happened as we returned to our seats. Will Gerhard stepped to the side for a brief moment and gestured for me to take his place right behind Michael. I nodded my thanks and slipped into the seat right next to him. Michael smiled and took my hand in his own. I leaned against him and passed the rest of the ceremony in relative comfort.

We both declined to throw our caps in the air and once we were free, Michael and I slipped our way through the crowd of hyped up graduates. Somehow, Garcia was able to find us, rushing up from the side and capturing both of us in one of her patented, enthusiastic hugs.

"Oh my babies!"

Michael wasn't one for affection in usual circumstances, but Garcia could worm her way past anyone's defenses.

"I'm so proud of you, look at you!"

"Thanks, Garcia," Michael said.

Then the tech goddess turned from gushing to business. "All right, my ducks, I've already called ahead to the Crown Café, they are setting up our table to celebrate. Hotch is pulling the car around—"

"I'm going with Michael," I interrupted. "We'll meet you there in twenty minutes."

"Fine, fine, fine," Garcia waved me off. "But no dawdling. Natasha told me she has a whole tray of brownies ready for us."

"So where do you think Reid was just now?" Michael asked as we walked away and headed for the parking lot.

"Crutches in a crowd? Pain in the ass," I pointed out from experience. "That's probably why Hotch went to pull the car around for him. We'll see him soon enough."

"Right."

On our way, both Michael and I pulled off our caps and gowns, folded them, and then stuffed them into the backpack Michael had brought along. Given the warm temperature of the day, both Michael and I were much more comfortable in our day clothes. For the day, Michael had put on clean khaki pants and a dark blue, short-sleeved button down shirt. My own outfit consisted of black capri pants and a gauzy pink blouse with sleeves that covered the bandage I still had to wear around the knife wound on my upper arm.

Once we reached Michael's parking spot, he secured the back pack and then handed me one of the two helmets in his hands. He then swung his leg over his new pride and joy: the 1987 Kawasaki Vulcan 750 motorcycle he had spent the last year repairing at the auto shop. And this was the reason I was in capris and not a dress like pretty much every other girl at graduation. Not that I minded as I got on behind him and held on as Michael peeled out of the parking lot.

There was still a crowd at the café when we arrived, but I saw a table outside under an umbrella with a "Reserved" sign proudly displayed. Reid was already seated and stirring packets of Splenda into his iced tea.

I took a seat next to him and smiled at his startled look.

"Rachel, congratulations!"

I leaned into the arm he draped around my shoulders, feeling unexpected pleasure at the pride and joy in his voice. Reid had graduated high school when he was twelve years old, but it suddenly occurred to me that he probably had not had anyone in the stands watching him. As my sympathy overcame me, I reached my own arm around his back and bumped my head against Reid's shoulder.

He looked down at me in surprise but must have read something of my thoughts across my face because he smiled shyly before ducking his head away.

The arrival of Emily, Garcia, Colin, Matilda, and Natasha bearing a large tray loaded with food rescued Reid and me from our sentimental moment.

I stood up and traveled the rounds of hugs and other well wishes. As everyone started to take their seats, I asked, "Where's Hotch?"

Garcia's exuberance dimmed slightly. "Oh, he had some work to do, sweetie."

I didn't let myself show how hurt I felt. Not that I was surprised. Even though Hotch hadn't officially returned to work—he had another two weeks to go before his medical leave was up—he was spending most of his time at home working at his desk. I didn't need to look to know that he was working on Foyet's file.

One of the many reasons actually that I was avoiding the apartment by sleeping over with either Natasha or Michael a lot of nights. Hotch never commented on it since he wasn't happy about me sticking around to make myself a target. So I wasn't surprised that Hotch had left the celebration that Natasha and Garcia had been planning.

He probably thought he would just bring down the celebration by his extremely dour and grim mood.

"So, dig in, folks," Natasha ordered cheerfully, setting out platters of her excellent trade: chicken salad on croissants, bowls of ginger-lime coleslaw, broccoli salad, and fruit salad, a huge Cobb salad with hard-boiled eggs, avocado, blue cheese, and bacon, and savory cheddar-scallion scones along with pitchers of iced tea and homemade lemonade.

"Rossi is on his way," Emily informed me after she passed the glass of half-tea, half-lemonade. "He needed to stop for something."

I nodded that I had heard her, but I couldn't help but feel like she was only telling me this to make up for Hotch bailing.

Luckily, Natasha and Matilda had taken over my previous job of heckling Michael into pursuing some kind of degree or even mechanic schooling. I couldn't help but smile as my friend started to wilt from their tag team.

"All right, all right, all right," Garcia interrupted, coming to Michael's rescue. "I propose a toast to our two wonderful graduates. You are both about to embark on the next amazing and new chapters in your lives. Try to remember everything you've learned already, be open to new experiences, and know that no matter how much you will continue to grow, you will always have the love and support of those here at this table and others."

Michael grabbed my hand and squeezed. I knew that he was more than overwhelmed by Garcia's words because he wasn't used to having people in his life that he could rely on. I squeezed back, reinforcing the speech with my unspoken promise.

"Enough with the touchy-feely nonsense," Colin said to break the emotional tension. "Give the kids their presents so we can reap the gratitude."

Natasha and her grandmother cleared the nearly empty platters while Emily and Colin pulled out the wrapped boxes and sealed envelopes hidden in the corner of the fenced in patio area in front of the café.

Garcia, Emily, Reid, and JJ apparently had all chipped in to buy new laptops for Michael and myself. We were both stunned.

"I can't accept this," Michael blurted out in stunned disbelief.

"I know people and got a discount," Garcia assured him, rightly realizing that it was the expense of the gift that had him balking.

Colin and Matilda had combined gift certificates for us both that would work for either free books at the shop for free meals at the café. As Michael was secretly an avid reader, I wasn't so sure as the rest of them that his certificate would be used more for food.

"Please tell me I didn't miss dessert," Rossi commented, sneaking behind our group from around the corner of the sidewalk.

"Nope," Natasha reassured him. "Just in time for the gifts, and you'd better tell me that you brought the second half of our present."

Now that made me frown in confusion and surprise. I could think of less-likely pairings than Rossi and Natasha to go in together for a gift.

"I am suddenly very intrigued and very worried at the same time," I said slowly.

"I'm more worried than intrigued," Michael added.

"Well, if he thought the laptop was huge…" Emily commented mysteriously while she, Reid, and Garcia all sported face-splitting grins.

"Oh God, just spit it out already," I begged.

"Well, thanks to my genius, I've solved a lot of problems with this one action," Rossi started, taking a seat directly across from Michael and me and placing an envelope on the table. "See, no one could come up with a compromise between you and Hotch about where you're going to live that keeps you safe, doesn't endanger anyone else, and also doesn't involve witness protection."

So far, he wasn't saying anything I hadn't racked through my brain cells trying to find a solution. I agreed with Hotch that I shouldn't continue to live with him, though my motivation was more along the lines of having flashbacks every time I saw the portion of carpet where I had almost bled out than anything else. And I also agreed that the dorm buildings at Strader were too risky given Foyet was still alive and stalking.

"And I took a look once at the hole in the wall that this young man thinks is adequate housing," Rossi continued, though his tone didn't convey any actual criticism. It was probably just that Rossi thought that Michael deserved more in his life than what he had, just like I did.

"To that end, I have just recently bought two apartments not far from here across the hall from each other. In this envelope are the lease agreements that you will each sign. This isn't charity or a hand-out, though I'm quoting a lower rent in exchange for car repair services."

As both Michael and I did impressions of fish out of water, Rossi kept going.

"Morgan will be giving both apartments a thorough going over and make any necessary repairs. They'll be ready for habitation in four to five weeks."

Michael visibly shook off his shock and then opened his mouth, poised to say something in argument.

"This is not up for debate," Rossi cut him off at the pass. They locked eyes and even with my experience of reading non-verbal communication, I had no idea what messages they were passing between them. Eventually, Michael nodded once, a quick jerk of assent, and then leaned back into his chair.

"And my contribution will be to stock your pantries and refrigerators," Natasha jumped in breezily, deliberately turning attention away from the awkward silence that had just started to settle. "Giving you no excuse for living on take out food."

This time, Michael mustered a smile as I started to thank everyone. While Michael still didn't have an ounce of body fat on him, he wasn't the stick figure he had been years ago. And that was definitely due to eating Natasha's food on a somewhat regular basis.

We ended the celebration with double-layered brownie cheesecake squares and then people started to disperse. I offered to stay and help clean up, but Natasha and Emily shooed me away to Michael, explicitly telling us to scram.

I secured our shiny new laptops in Michael's laptop and donned my helmet. By unspoken agreement, I went home with Michael to his "hole in the wall" studio apartment.

I hadn't started to spend much time there until Foyet for fairly obvious reasons. Michael wasn't a slob, but his home was fairly spartan, boasting a double bed, a futon couch, one set of bookshelves, a mini-fridge, and a set of cabinets for food storage.

Waiting for us—and proving that not only was he an expert profiler, but an expert on us—Hotch had left us another package under the door.

Michael opened while I placed our helmets on the hooks by the front door.

"Gas cards, rolls of quarters, road maps, and guide books for a cross country road trip," Michael summarized.

I took the books from him with numb fingers as I put it all together. I had intended to take a trip out to California to see my brother and his family after graduation since they hadn't been able to get enough time off from work to come out for the ceremony. Hotch had told me that he would take care of my plane ticket—I hadn't seen it yet, but my trip wasn't for another two weeks so I hadn't been concerned.

"I guess we're driving to San Francisco," I commented, trying to keep my voice steady. Michael hadn't planned on coming with me, but Hotch's intentions were clear.

Michael sat down hard on the futon as if his legs had turned to jelly. I brought the books with me and collapsed next to him. Not that I hadn't had ample proof of my adopted family's generosity, but it could still catch me off guard, especially when they went to these lengths.

"I wonder if the apartments are coming fully furbished," I wondered out loud. "Otherwise, we'll need to go furniture shopping."

"Jesus, I hadn't even thought of that."

"Have you thought about telling me what happened in your staring contest with Rossi?" I asked. If he told me to butt out, I would, but I was curious. "You managed to do that longer than serial killers, you know."

Michael sighed and then pulled me sideways until my legs and feet rested in his lap for physical contact.

"He got two apartments because us living together full time is too much, too fast," he finally said.

I acknowledged the truth of that since despite our friendship, the romance was still a little uncertain and brand new.

"But if I'm across the hall from you, that's someone to watch over you and keep an eye out for that sick bastard."

"That shouldn't be your responsibility," I objected. "I don't need you to protect me."

Michael looked bleak. "But I need to feel like I can protect you."

I had known within hours of waking up in my hospital room that Michael would always feel blame for leaving me the night Foyet had attacked. It wasn't rational and it wasn't truthful, but it was there. And that guilt was now a near-constant presence in our relationship, one that both of us tried to ignore and refused to acknowledge to each other.

That desperate need to make up for his perceived failure flavored his kiss when he pulled me forward and our lips met. I felt the need for assurance in his touch as his hands tried to remove my clothing gently and ghosted around the bandages and stiches that still held my body together. Michael didn't flinch from my still-healing wounds, but he didn't accept that they weren't his fault.

I couldn't confront him on this without breaking whatever spell it was that kept the flood waters at bay in both of us. Something warned me that it would hurt us both very much and I couldn't afford to lose him from my life.

But I knew that wouldn't hold forever. Soon, we would have to address the issues between us, no matter how much we feared the outcome. That was part of growing up, too.

* * *

Notes:

Yeah, I couldn't stay away long. But my problem was that I had events that I wanted to have happen after Mvt IV but before Mvt V because they really didn't fit with either season. So I'm trying something new with Interlude. None of these chapters are episode-specific since they take place between seasons four and five and as the number just so happened to work out, each chapter is titled with a scale degree which also works because simply playing up a scale transitions music between octaves.

About scale degrees. Most of you actually know what I'm talking about more than you think. You just probably know the Solfeggio names better than the musical theory terminology. Instead of Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La, Ti, when analyzing music, musicians will write Tonic, Supertonic, Mediant, Subdominant, Dominant, Submediant, and Leading Tone. For shorthand, Roman numerals are also used for each scale tone and chords based on each tone. We even differentiate between major and minor chords using uppercase and lower case numerals. But that's probably more of a music lesson than people are looking for when summer break is approaching.

And that's probably why I decided to go ahead and post this chapter now, even though I only have four of the seven written. It's graduation season and I thought this chapter would be appropriate timing.

Thanks for joining me once again. I'll have the second chapter posted next week Saturday or Sunday.

Cantoris


	2. Supertonic

_Supertonic: California_

"Oh, my God, look at you!" Kat exclaimed, rushing up to hug me as I stepped out of the passenger seat of my car. "How was the driving? Come on in, I've got some dinner ready."

Over my sister-in-law's shoulder, I saw Michael's eyes open wide in fright. This was his first time meeting any of my biological family. He never admitted it, but somewhere between Kansas and Nevada, he had started to grow anxious about meeting John, Kat, and my nieces, Lillian and Laura. He was probably thinking that he didn't have the best of luck meeting my blood-relatives. Kat's cheerful greeting was also guaranteed to scare him.

"Come in, come in."

Smiling ruefully, I grabbed my duffle bag out of the back seat, Michael following my lead to put off the inevitable.

The house that John and Kat had bought almost a year ago was a two story building in the hilly San Francisco suburbs. It had felt almost like a roller coaster on the last few miles of driving.

"Remember to put the parking brake on," I reminded Michael, both to give him more time to gear himself up and because my car was parked on a severe angle.

Michael nodded, visibly bracing himself. I grinned.

I set off for the front steps, climbed them, and then walked with Kat through the door.

"I just can't believe your hair, I've never seen it this short before," Kat told me, an arm around my shoulder as she led me inside.

I kept the smile on my face, but the reasoning behind my haircut fell under the category of subjects to avoid with my family. After I was discharged from the hospital, I had come home with bandages that made it difficult to shower. Even after I could take those off, it still ached to hold my one arm above my head for extended lengths of time to shampoo and blow dry my hair despite my continued physical therapy.

So, I went to Natasha's friend Lindsay and donated nearly fourteen inches of my hair to Locks of Love. As if that wasn't enough change, once my hair wasn't so weighty, my hair turned out to curl naturally, bringing it from just above my shoulders to up to my chin.

Natasha, Garcia, and Emily all thought the new look was amazing; I was just glad that it cut down the time I took in the shower and eliminated my need for blow dryer.

Soon enough, I heard high-pitched laughing. Experience with Jack taught me to drop my bag and drop to the floor. Not a second later, my arms were full of toddlers who had obviously inherited their mother's friendliness and not their father's solid calm.

Speaking of…

"Rachel."

I looked up from his daughters and saw my brother, John, coming down the stairs. John looked like our mother, dark haired, dark eyed, with a wide smile. John had also inherited our mother's unflappable nature which had served her well as a doctor.

"What are you feeding these little hellions?" I asked with a smile as John pried Lillian and Laura off my arms.

"Spinach lasagna tonight," Kat answered, coming up to pick Lillian up while John took Laura. I wondered if John had noticed how much I was holding back a pained gasp as his little angels had unknowingly hit both the wounds on my hip and my arm, both of which were still extremely tender.

"Sounds great," I said, coming to my feet gingerly.

"Of course your evil vegetarian ways are encouraged on this coast," Michael commented from behind me, subtly bringing a hand to grip my elbow to help steady me.

"John, Kat, this is my friend, Michael," I introduced, ignoring the way John's eye twitched when I called Michael my friend. "Michael, my oldest brother, John, his wife and definitely better half, Kat, and their daughters Lillian and Laura."

"It's so good to meet you Michael," Kat said, sounding genuinely pleased and proving that she probably was John's better half. "And I promise that tomorrow, we'll have some meat on the table."

"Thanks for having us," Michael said, only shuffling a little bit to relieve his anxiety.

"Would you mind if we unpacked and got settled before dinner?" I asked. "We headed out early this morning, it's been a long drive."

"Oh, of course, here," Kat said, placing Lillian on the floor. "I've got the guest bedroom all set—"

"And the den has a pull out couch for Michael," John interrupted.

I exchanged a look with Michael, but neither of us were surprised at the sleeping arrangements. John and I may not be all that close for siblings given the number of years between us and the fact that we hadn't lived together since before I was in kindergarten. But John still had issues thinking of me as more than a little girl, not to mention he was probably feeling protective now in light of Foyet's attack.

"Why don't you take Rachel upstairs and I'll take care of Michael?" Kat suggested.

Definitely the better half. I might have worried about John and Michael together without Kat or I to play interference.

"Yes, dear," John replied in light-hearted tones.

John and I left the twins with Kat and walked up the stairs.

"So, how was graduation?" John asked me as we walked.

"It was fine," I replied. "Nothing special."

"Nothing special?" he asked. "It's not every day you graduate high school with a 3.8 GPA."

I shrugged. There was just no way I could make my brother understand that with everything else going on in my life, a long, boring ceremony wasn't a big thrill.

"Still, I'm sorry that we missed it, but I couldn't get enough time to take the trip out there," John explained.

Thankfully we came to the guest room before John could keep apologizing.

"Bathroom is down the hall, the girls' room is actually down stairs, but Kat and I are right next door if you need anything, okay?"

"I'll be fine, thanks," I assured him.

"All right then."

The room was bigger than my room back at Hotch's apartment, with a queen bed, a nightstand on either side, two dressers (one with a large mirror on top), a large, overstuffed armchair, and some bookshelves. The colors were neutral blues and browns, very gender friendly.

I put my bag on top of one of the dressers and then took out my bag of toiletries and took those to the bathroom. While I was there, I washed my face and quickly ran a brush through my hair. Back in the bedroom, I sent text messages to Hotch, Garcia, and Natasha to let them know we had arrived safely.

After a few minutes, I headed downstairs and found Kat setting the table. I stepped in to help her while John corralled the girls into their high chairs. Michael joined us just in time to retrieve the salad and water glasses while Kat grabbed the piping hot pan of lasagna and breadsticks.

The lasagna was a little bland, but it was hot and filing. It's not that Kat wasn't a good cook, because she was, but not only had I benefited from my dad's cooking for most of my life, but I had also had Rossi's Italian dishes which were even better. But I thanked Kat for the meal and laughed as both of my nieces got marinara sauce on their hands and faces and Lauren even got some in her hair.

I had once made lasagna for Hotch and Haley, right before they had divorced and my dad had taken off. Jack had looked just like them that night.

And I suddenly remembered that Jack was in Witness Protection and I had no idea when—or if—I would ever see him again. I carefully hid that grief and finished dinner. I was grateful when Michael volunteered us for dish duty while John and Kat gave the twins their nightly baths.

"I'm supposed to be the one on tenterhooks until we leave," Michael told me as I washed and he loaded the dishwasher. "What had you put on your fake smile for half of dinner?"

"I am so glad that my brother doesn't know me well enough to read my expressions," I muttered under my breath before I sighed in resignation. "I was thinking about Jack."

"Oh." Michael paused. "Do you—do you wish that you had gone with him and Haley?"

"No," I answered immediately. "Haley made the right choice, but so did I."

Michael bumped his shoulder against mine and we went back to our washing.

The rest of the trip we balanced between tourist attractions and family-related activities. Michael and I went to Fisherman's Wharf and ate clam chowder out of sourdough bread bowls and took pictures of the sea lions on the docks. Kat and the twins came with us to the Golden Gate Bridge and then to the park. John couldn't join us due to his work during the day, but he accompanied Michael and me to an outdoor concert.

The week actually flew by quickly and Michael and I still had the drive back before he and I had to be back to work. We packed the car at night, keeping only a change of clothes in the house so that we could hit the road first thing in the morning.

Michael was a heavy sleeper, so he hadn't noticed yet that I wasn't sleeping through the night. Since we had our early departure, I decided to try something in the kitchen.

Thanks to my many years listening to Reid's many and varied ramblings, I knew that it wasn't just a cup of warm milk that could help someone sleep, almost any dairy product would do, and the yogurt in the fridge wouldn't risk waking everyone else like a tea kettle or microwave.

I hadn't turned the lights on, but I heard the footsteps before John walked into the kitchen himself. Ever since Foyet, I hadn't been able to shake my new paranoia of monitoring my surroundings. Even in the "safety" of home.

"Can't sleep?" my brother asked me, taking a seat next to me at the kitchen table.

"Not for longer than a few hours at a time," I admitted, too tired to play my game of hiding half of who I was to my own relative.

"And you're really driving back tomorrow?"

I shrugged. "Work to do, a new apartment, buy my books, orientation…"

"Why go back?"

I looked up at him in surprise. "What do you mean? I just told you."

"No, why go back to DC at all? It's not safe for you anymore," John insisted.

I felt a surge of irritation. "I'm safe enough," I snapped.

"But why go back?" he demanded. "Leave all that behind you and stop living with a target on your back because of the damn FBI."

Something clicked in my brain that I maybe should have noticed years before. "You blame my dad for Mom's death because he was an agent, don't you?"

"I can't ignore the fact that a serial killer came after our mother because of your dad's job. Just like I can't ignore the fact that you were attacked because of Agent Hotchner."

I shook my head, trembling with suppressed anger. "And I can't ignore the fact that when I was essentially orphaned, you left me behind."

I got up to walk back to my room before I really lost my composure, but John grabbed my arm to stop me.

"Let me go," I told him tersely.

"Not until you understand that it's safer with your own family than FBI agents who will always bring trouble and danger. I do not want to bury you in the ground like I did Mom."

"Let me go," I repeated.

He did, so instead of walking away, I turned around to confront him.

"Those FBI agents are more family to me than you, Scott, and Alan. They know what I think, how I act, what I like, and what I'm likely to do better than you do because they actually spent time with me and paid attention to me. They listened to me and supported me when no one else in my life did. So I will go back to my home, my life, and my _family_, and I will be there with them like they were there for me."

I started to walk away, but I left one last parting shot over my shoulder. "And if I ever hear you denigrate any of them ever again, I will write you off for good and you will never hear from me again."

I went back to the guest room and got dressed, packing up my last toiletries and pajamas. With the lengthening days, there was enough light at five in the morning that I woke up Michael and left a note to Kat, apologizing for leaving without saying goodbye.

"So, ready to go?" Michael asked me, and like the good friend he was, he didn't object or question our unexpected departure.

"Time to go home," I answered.

* * *

Notes:

So, this is not how I originally planned this chapter. John turned into much more of an ass that I meant at first, but I think I'll stick with it. I think I just wanted the chance for Rachel to tell someone in her family off, so there we go.

For Rachel's haircut, I picture the cut and curl of Scarlett Johansson in _Avengers_. Not that that's super important.

Also, I am fully aware that no CM characters made appearances in this chapter. This is necessary and kind of a taste for how the rest of this series is likely to go. Rachel is growing up and she's about to start spending most of her daylight hours with a completely new set of people. This means there will be more chapters where it's just Rachel and my other original characters. I get enough comments on how developed Rachel's life is separate from the team that I'm fairly certain you will all understand and accept this. Not that the team's going anywhere. There are still plenty of opportunities to keep them around and active in Rachel's life and a lot of the chapters will still reference the show's episodes.

Thanks as always for reading!

Cantoris


	3. Mediant

_Mediant: Apartment_

After I finished my hours at the Monarch Bookstore, I plugged the new address into my GPS and drove to the apartments Rossi had recently purchased for Michael and me to rent.

The building was only two stories high; the first floor was two separate two-bedroom apartments, the second floor was set up with four one-bedroom apartments. Michael and I would live across from each other on the second floor.

Michael was still working for another hour, but Rossi and Morgan were waiting for me outside the apartment building. Rossi handed me a set of keys with a broad smile.

"Welcome home, kiddo."

I smirked as Morgan swept me a gallant bow and gestured me inside.

The lobby was nicely decorated with hardwood floors, a nice couch, mirror, some plants, and six mailboxes. There were two doors and a staircase. I followed my renovator and new landlord up the stairs to the hallway with four doors. Rossi maneuvered me to the door marked 2B and I opened the door with my key.

"Michael will be across the hall in 2D," Rossi explained. "But this is all yours."

The layout was open and free, with only two doors that I presumed led to my new bedroom and bathroom. But the kitchen area was immediately to my left with only a counter designating the space as separate from the rest of the room. Directly ahead of me was a living area and a sliding door leading out a small balcony.

"We got the furniture from your old house out of the storage unit," Morgan explained to me. I had already recognized the living room set from the family room of the house where I had lived with my mother over two years ago. The blue and gray striped chairs, charcoal colored couch, and coffee table fit well with the neutral gray colored walls. Someone had also added navy blue curtains around the balcony door that was the source for all the natural light.

I turned back to the kitchen and found granite counter tops, a stainless steel refrigerator, and a gas stove. I preferred those over electric ones anyway. I guessed that Morgan had also liberated the pots, pans, and other kitchen tools and essentials from the storage unit as well.

"I've checked all the appliances," Morgan continued, watching me wander. "And I upgraded your waterworks in the bathroom."

At that prompt, I opened the door closest to the kitchen and found a surprisingly large sink, toilet, and a classic, claw-foot bathtub. The tiled floor was basic white, the fixtures white as well. But someone—I suspected Garcia—had already installed a shower curtain in a bold pattern of green and purple and added a soap dish and cup in jade green, and wall decals of peacock feathers.

I smiled at the fact that Garcia managed to reference my prom outfit in my bathroom. Only Garcia.

Morgan noticed my smile, grinned in return, and accurately guessed what summoned it.

"Wait until you see the bedroom."

The bedroom was about the same size as the room I had had in my mom's house, meaning I had enough room for the double bed, a large dresser, two sets of bookshelves, a bench at the foot of the bed, two nightstands, and an arm chair. Garcia's touch was in the choice of bedspread: a colorful quilt, patterned with purple, green, blue, orange, and brown which should have looked overwhelming, but with the colors more warm than bright, they worked well together.

Garcia had also added the yellow and green afghan that I had inherited from my mother, the one that had been knitted for her when she had been pregnant with me. I walked to the bed and trailed my fingers over the afghan.

Before I could get too teary over Garcia's thoughtfulness, Morgan interrupted my inspection.

"According to Prentiss, she and JJ had to talk Garcia out of the Hello Kitty bedspread."

I laughed, like Morgan meant me to. This bedspread and color-scheme was more my taste than the last time Garcia had picked out a bedspread for me. The green and purple paisley was definitely too cheerful for me, especially given what had happened with Foyet.

There was a large window, looking out on the same stretch of street as the balcony. The curtains here matched the navy blue of the living room, which along with blue in the bathroom as well, tied the whole design of the apartment together, demonstrating Garcia's impeccable taste.

"Everything looks wonderful," I finally commented, turning to look at Rossi and Morgan who had followed me into the bedroom. "Thank you both, so much."

"No worries, baby," Morgan assured me. "We've still got some of your stuff at Hotch's to move over, but Natasha and Prentiss packed most of your clothes, books, and other stuff."

"Laundry is down the hall, you saw the mailboxes downstairs," Rossi told me. "I wrote down the name and number for the super of the building, but feel free to call Morgan or me if you need anything."

"Really, anything you need," Morgan insisted right on Rossi's heels. "You call me right away, you hear?"

Oh, I was well aware that all I had to do was cough in a concerned manner and I could have my place swarmed by FBI agents. Probably a full SWAT team to boot.

"Message received, loud and clear," I answered.

Shortly after that, Morgan and Rossi walked across the hall to meet Michael and give him his own tour. I decided to wait for him before inviting myself over. Part of me was grateful beyond words that Rossi had set this up so that Michael and I could be close, but I was also worried that this would only heighten the awkwardness that had developed between Michael and me since we had started sleeping together.

I actually never got a chance to walk over because Natasha, Garcia, and Emily came in with house-warming gifts in the form of flowers, more potted plants, and food to fill my pantry and fridge. Michael, Rossi, and Morgan joined us, but soon the federal agents left, leaving just Natasha, Michael, and me for dinner.

Tasha and I put together tuna melt sandwiches and vegetable soup, but then even my friend obviously excused herself.

Michael and I had just finished washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen when it hit both of us—the last time we had been doing just this in a kitchen. The night we had slept together just hours before Foyet had attacked me.

I reached out to Michael and pulled him close to me. He came, but he was tense as bowstrings.

"Hey," I said quietly, hoping to get his attention. "Look at me."

He looked down, looked into my eyes, and then he leaned down, kissing me desperately.

I hadn't intended to inaugurate my new bed in this way, but that's what happened. But I couldn't decide if we had done it out of genuine desire or if we had done it to prove something, either to ourselves or to Foyet.

It almost felt like we were saying good bye.

* * *

Notes:

So, now I am worried that having chapters without the CM characters might not go as smoothly as I hoped, based on the lack of reviews in the last chapter. Well, I might have some rethinking to do.

Sorry there isn't a lot of actual plot development here, but I wanted to show how much Rossi and Morgan put into making Rachel safe. Something I didn't mention, but I'll say here, you've got to know that Garcia set up Rachel's wireless and probably set some alarms, cause she's awesome like that.

As always, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Preview for next chapter: some interaction between Rachel and Hotch.

Cantoris


	4. Sub-dominant

_Sub-dominant: Healing_

Light filtered in through the curtains of my window, my first morning in my apartment. I woke slowly, given it was summer, so it took me some time to realize I wasn't alone in my bed. First, I heard his steady breathing, not the deep, slow inhalations of sleep, but the controlled manner that said he didn't want to wake me. Still, the feather-light touch of his fingers trailing on my hand, didn't lull me back to sleep.

I opened my eyes, looked over, and found Michael staring at me with love and sadness in his eyes. No one else could have read the complex of emotions, but there was really nothing we could hide from each other at this point.

"Rachel," he said when he saw I was awake. "I…"

He hesitated and I remembered the first day he had ever approached me at school-he had been hesitant then, too.

"Just tell me. You can tell me anything," I promised. And that had been my promise to him from that first day.

"I love you," he finally confessed, but his tone told me that this wasn't a simple declaration of love. "I love you like no one else in my life. You have been the best and truest friend to me when I never thought it was possible."

I reversed our hands laying on my stomach so I held his up to my heart. "That goes both ways," I told him. "I can always count on you to be by my side no matter what. You have never flinched from all the evil and trouble in my life. And for that, I love you more than I can ever say."

Michael nodded and squeezed my hand. "But."

I huffed out my breath. "Yeah, 'but,'" I agreed.

"I don't know if we just missed our window or if we were only ever meant to be friends," Michael finally said. "But this—" he gestured to our naked bodies, "—this isn't actually us. It's weird and complicated and you don't need that right now. You need what we used to have."

I closed my eyes in relief.

"Don't get me wrong," Michael hurried on, mistaking my relief. "I don't think that we were wrong to try—"

"But it doesn't exactly feel right," I finished for him.

"Not this part of us, no," Michael agreed.

I probably should have felt something more than relieved that Michael felt the same way I did. After all, I could now classify this as my second failed romance.

Well, I guess I didn't feel like it had failed, though. Michael and I would remain friends, I was sure of that, and we would still support each other and be there for each other. We had just taken sex off the menu really, that was all.

Michael still kissed me good bye when he left for his own apartment to get dressed for work. I smiled after he left, knowing that our friendship was still intact. My smile disappeared when I considered my errand for the day.

I still had my key to Hotch's apartment, and I had already decided that I was keeping it unless Hotch asked for it. It was no surprise that he had been avoiding me lately, deliberately distancing himself so that Foyet wouldn't come after me again. Hotch, Rossi, Reid, and Emily had all explained to me that Foyet was without a doubt watching Hotch to witness the after-effects of his handiwork. If Hotch avoided me, not only did that mean he kept Foyet away from me, but it would also mean Foyet would think he had driven me away, fooling the bastard into thinking he was winning.

I walked in, calling out tentatively.

"Rachel, the alarm," Hotch's voice reminded me, coming out from his office.

I reached and immediately dialed in the code into the alarm box and then closed and locked the door behind me. Both Hotch and I were feeling hyper-vigilant still.

"I called the alarm company yesterday, they'll send someone over to your apartment tomorrow to install a system for you," Hotch informed me as he came out into the main room.

I could have felt insulted that Hotch was taking this high-handed manner in my new life, but I appreciated that it was his way of protecting me even though I had stopped being his responsibility when I turned eighteen nearly a year ago.

"Thank you," I said instead. "When can you come over to see the place?"

"Rachel, I shouldn't."

I sighed, but I had expected his answer. Hotch would never let Foyet find me through him. Hell, if Hotch could drug me and hand me over to the US Marshalls, he would.

I started to walk forward so I could gather up Hannah and all of her furniture, food, litter, and toys—my reason for coming over—but Hotch caught my arm as I walked past him.

"What's happened?"

"I hate profilers," I muttered. Nothing was ever secret in our family with so many knowing how to read expressions and behavior. "Michael and I talked today and we've decided to go back to being friends without the benefits," I explained baldly.

"And you feel that will be better for both of you now?" Hotch asked me to be sure.

"Yeah, I do," I told him. "I don't think I realized just how much I missed how simple it used to be until Michael admitted he felt the same way."

"So, you'll be all right with this?" Hotch wanted to make sure.

I reached up and hugged Hotch hesitantly, not sure if he would allow me. But he did and he wrapped his arms around me as well.

"As long as you're safe and happy," was all he added.

"I am safe and happy," I promised him, meaning every word.

I set out to gather my cat's things and then secured Hannah herself into her cat carrier. Poor thing was now moving to a fourth residence in the same number of years. I saw in my room the boxes that Morgan had mentioned to me yesterday, the rest of my belongings packed up and ready to be moved.

"I'll take some of the boxes with me right now," I offered to Hotch when he came to check on me.

"You've got enough right now with the cat and everything else. Wait for Morgan to help with the lifting," he countered. "Or would Michael help?"

"Considering I'm helping him pick out more furniture this week, yeah, he'll help," I laughed.

Hotch remained sober as he watched me take a bag of cat food in one hand and one of litter in the other. "I'll take Hannah last so she's not left in my car while I come back for the rest," I explained.

"Just don't over do it," Hotch cautioned me, watching me carefully.

Since I felt some of the strain already in the developing scar tissue on my left arm, I didn't find Hotch's warning out of place. But I was trying to build my arm strength back for my flute playing when I started my first semester. I had other plans for that as well.

It took me two loads to get Hannah's supplies to my car, leaving just her carrier for my third trip. Hotch caught my arm again before I could leave.

"You're being careful?" he asked intensely.

I gave his answer serious thought since I knew he meant it seriously.

"I watch in my mirrors whenever I drive for any following car," I started. "I've told Colin and Natasha what Foyet looks like so they're on the look out and they both have Garcia on speed dial." Hotch didn't even question why either of them would call Garcia first; she would be quickest at getting the right people notified. "Then with Michael across the hall and the security system, I'm covered at home."

Something told me that I would also have assorted FBI agents keeping an eye on me, too. Whether it would be by Hotch's command or Garcia's machinations, it was a strong certainty. I had my own ideas on that score as well.

"You'll be careful, too?" I double-checked. "Please, I need you to be careful."

Hotch nodded curtly and sensing that I needed more assurance from him, brought his hand up to my neck, the weight of it and the gesture doing wonders to comfort me. It hadn't been easy at first, when Hotch had become my legal guardian, and we had to learn not only how to live with each other, but how Hotch had learned to look after me and I had learned to let him.

"Take care of yourself," Hotch ordered softly but firmly.

I nodded. It wasn't ego that told me that if anything else happened to me, Hotch would never forgive himself. He didn't forgive himself for Foyet as it was.

Hotch walked me to the door, but his mask was back on as soon as the door opened—in case Foyet was watching me leave. I should have felt terrified, and while I was anxious, I knew I was doing the right thing.

True to my word, I watched for any cars as I drove to my apartment, but I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. I let Hannah out of her carrier at the apartment so she could explore her new home and then spent a couple hours unpacking boxes. After that, I went to work and from there, I walked down the street to the yoga studio I had picked out a week earlier.

There were a lot of reasons why I decided to begin yoga at this point in my life. For one, I figured it was about time I had something physical to do, not only for general health but also to work on my muscle tone. The little I had had before was already diminished by my recovery. It was still a strain if I practiced my flute for more than a half hour; I could once go for three hours straight.

But I couldn't deny that I was also drawn to the mental, emotional, and spiritual aspects of the practice. I needed all of those things.

Of course, my first session was difficult as I was out of shape, still hurting, and completely new. Still, as I climbed the stairs to my apartment, aching, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I stopped by Michael's apartment and knocked on the door.

His eyebrows shot up when he took me in. I couldn't help but giggle at the sight I must have presented. Even though yoga had only been an hour, my short hair was damp with sweat and pulled back by only a cloth headband. Sweat had also plastered my long sleeved tee shirt and yoga pants to my body and no doubt, my cheeks were still flushed and damp as well.

"See what you're missing now?" I joked.

For anyone else, it would have been too soon to joke, but Michael smirked and shook his head. "What was I thinking?"

I was about to walk away, but I saw something in his apartment that caught my attention.

"What the hell?"

Michael looked over his shoulder, spotted what I had noticed, and grinned.

"Leo gave me a graduation bonus," Michael explained and waving me inside.

His apartment was a mirror opposite of mine, but since he didn't have a storage unit to draw on as I did, he only had a small couch, a battered table, and a TV stand—we were going shopping for him later in the week. But what I had noticed earlier was now against the opposite wall from the TV.

I walked over the electric keyboard, already set up on a stand and with the power button blinking on.

"I figured, I don't have access to all the percussion instruments anymore," Michael explained. "So I thought I'd give this a try."

Music had always been a part of our friendship and Michael and I relied on music in our lives for a lot of the same reasons. I had wondered what he would do now that we were graduated and he wouldn't be playing in the high school band or orchestra anymore.

"I should have some starter books from when I started my theory class last year," I explained.

"I figured," Michael said.

I started playing, just little melodies that I had learned and made up in the past year when I had started to be interested in composition. Michael came up next to me and started playing around with me.

I probably reeked and Michael was probably also tired from working in the auto shop, but we played together for nearly an hour before I left for my own apartment. But that hour had probably been one of the best I'd had since Foyet's attack. There wasn't any awkward hesitation, no drama, no angst, just both of us enjoying time together as we were meant to be.

Our friendship had already been tested many times before, and it was now stronger than ever. God knows how much I needed it and how much I appreciated it.

* * *

Notes:

I don't know if I should apologize for missing a week or for the fact that I know a lot of you will be upset about Rachel and Michael. I will confess right now, if it hadn't been for my sister Mab, the Elven Daughter, Rachel and Michael never would have slept together. But she said they should, so they did. Now, I never planned on them ending up together. I was actually going to use the "guy she never slept with thing" to add drama to Rachel's next romance, but there's still plenty I can do instead. So, please don't hate me?

Next chapter will be delayed since I'm still not happy with it and it needs some work. Your patience will be rewarded. Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Cantoris


	5. Dominant

Dominant: Defense

I made sure that I arrived at Quantico on a day I knew Hotch had a doctor's appointment for his own recovery. I wanted to make sure that he wouldn't ever know what I had done.

I probably could have just made a phone call to make my request, but I wanted to make it in person. So I put up with the knowing looks of the security officers and agents, most of whom probably knew every sordid detail of Foyet's attack.

But I found Morgan at his desk, thankfully, the only member of the team currently in the bull pen.

"Rachel," he said in surprise, standing up to greet me. "What's wrong?"

"I just wanted to ask you for a favor," I said, sitting down in Reid's chair which Morgan rolled over.

"Sure, anything," he promised.

"I want you to teach me how to defend myself and how to shoot a gun," I stated baldly.

I could tell that I had surprised him, but I didn't think that my request was surprising or out of the ordinary. Of course, my dad had seen to teaching me some basic techniques when I started high school and had lectured me on ways to avoid dangerous and suspicious situations.

"Rachel, if this is about Foyet, you've got to know that no matter how much you might have known about fighting, it wouldn't have made a difference," Morgan explained to me, not unkindly. "I mean, Hotch is a seasoned agent."

"Hotch was exhausted and caught off guard," I argued.

"And you were asleep," Morgan pointed out.

"Yes," I conceded. "I know that I might not have made a difference, but this is about more than Foyet. I'm just tired of feeling like a victim, Morgan. I don't even care about fighting back if Foyet comes after me again, or if anyone else decides to come after me. I just want to feel like I know I could defend myself if I need to."

"And that means a gun, too?"

"I know that I can't carry concealed until I'm twenty one," I said. "But I still want to know how to shoot one safely if that's my only option."

"I can think of so many ways this can come back to bite us both in ass," Morgan warned me. But I could tell that he wasn't dead set against the idea. "Now, I'm guessing you're asking me because you don't want Hotch to know?"

"If he thinks I'm concerned about this, he'll start pushing me into Witness Protection again," I explained. Morgan didn't argue this either.

The agent sat in thought for long moments before his internal debate resolved.

"All right, follow me."

I hadn't thought that Morgan would get me started right away, but I followed without a single protest.

"I'll teach you defensive moves only," Morgan explained as we walked. "Ways to escape and avoid attacks. I am not teaching how to take someone down, I want you to always focus on getting free and running away."

"Fine by me," I agreed.

"And I'll try to keep to regular sessions with you, but you know better than anyone that I can't make every one."

"That's okay."

"But if you're serious about this, you've got to do it regularly until it's all instinct."  
"How will I practice on my own?" I asked.

"You won't."

Morgan had led me to a whole different section of Quantico and I started to realize we were in the Academy wing where all federal agents are trained. Morgan led me into one of the class rooms—rather, it was a padded room that had to be for their defensive training.

"Agent Jones," Morgan called out, greeting the only person in the room.

Jones couldn't be much older than his late twenties. He was around five ten with dark hair and eyes and pale skin. I could tell there was some Asian ancestry in him, but not more than a quarter or an eighth. He wasn't muscled the way Morgan was, so I hid my surprise when Morgan introduced him.

"Rachel, this is Special Agent Adam Jones, one of the combat instructors here. Jones, this is Rachel Gideon."

My last name always seemed to be enough of an explanation to my identity whenever I met FBI agents. I had made my peace with it a long time ago.

"I'll be teaching Rachel self-defense moves, but I was hoping you could cover me when I need to go in the field," Morgan explained.

"I should be able to work that into my schedule," Jones agreed easily. His voice was deceptively soft and non-threatening. "We don't start the next session for another week so I can keep her in mind."

"Thank you," I said sincerely.

"Jones has been learning martial arts since he was five," Morgan explained to me. "That's why he got tapped as instructor just a year out of the Academy."

"I teach local classes too, to civilians, so don't think that I'll be treating you like a recruit," Jones told me. "Unless that's what we're looking to do?" Jones included Morgan in his question.

"No, just defense, no take downs," Morgan clarified. "And we want to keep this on the down-low as much as possible."

Jones raised a single eyebrow in question.

"I don't want Agent Hotchner to know what I'm doing," I filled in. "I don't want him to worry about me."

Jones easily accepted my explanation and we exchanged cell phone numbers and emails.

"Jones will be perfect for you," Morgan told me as he led me out and down another hallway. "He's ranked in martial arts competitions, and seriously one of our best instructors. I'd trust him at my back any day of the week."

"And you're trusting him with me," I tacked on the unsaid comment.

Morgan smiled. "That's right baby. You're in good hands."

The gun range was just as empty as the combat room, so Morgan quickly gathered paper targets, ear muffs, and goggles and led me to the first station. Morgan spent a half hour with me, taking apart his back up gun and teaching me the different components and how to put it all together.

When it came time to actually shoot though, I was awkward and nervous. Despite the fact that I wanted to do this, I was well aware of the power and danger of guns.

"Let's pick it up again next week," Morgan finally said, sensing I was getting more and more frustrated with myself.

"I start at the Monarch at ten, would eight be too early?" I asked.

"No problem."

"Wait just a second," someone interrupted.

A handful of agents had come in and out during the past hour and I hadn't paid any attention to them for the sake of my nerves.

"Booth, good to see you, man," Morgan said, recognizing the speaker and holding out his hand for a handshake.

I recognized him, too. Once, I had gone to a dance club with Natasha and got body slammed into an FBI take down. Special Agent Seeley Booth was leading the investigation and had claimed me as his evidence for his tech people to analyze since the man who had body-checked me was his prime suspect.

"I heard you're back in the field. How are you doing?" Morgan asked, shooting me a quick look that promised a full explanation later.

"Not too shabby," Booth replied before turning his attention to me. "Rachel, it's good to see you again. Look, I just want you to know, the whole Bureau is after that sick bastard, okay?"

"Thank you, Agent Booth," I said sincerely but also embarrassed.

"Hey, Booth, I don't suppose you would be willing to help out here? I've got Jones to fill in when I'm away for hand-to-hand," Morgan suggested.

The agent I had met a year ago had been confident to the point of being cocky, but the agent in front of me was hesitant and slightly unsure.

"Well, I've actually still got to requalify in a week," he explained.

"No problem, man," Morgan assured him. He turned to me. "I'll have Garcia look someone up to cover for me."

"Her problem's with the recoil," yet another voice broke in from an extremely close proximity to our group.

I felt better that both Morgan and Booth jumped slightly at seeing a tall man, dressed casually in jeans and a buff colored shirt, standing not even two feet away from us.

"Edgerton," Booth greeted the new man curtly, recovering first. "Didn't know you were in town."

"I'm between hunts," Edgerton explained. He was tall, like Booth, with dark hair and tanned skin. His eyes were dark and assessing.

Booth facilitated the introductions this time. "Agent Derek Morgan, Rachel Gideon, Agent Ian Edgerton." Morgan's eyes lit up in recognition to the full name, but Booth added as an aside to me, "Edgerton's one of our best trackers and sniper instructors."

Edgerton's full attention pinned me again with a simple look. "Not awful for a first day, but you're shots are going high because you don't brace enough for the recoil of the gun."

"I just need practice," I replied, trying not to sound two weary. I wanted this, I reminded myself, even if I was starting to feel like a group project between Morgan, Booth, and Edgerton.

"Stick around for a bit," Edgerton said and then abruptly walked away.

"So he is like they say," Morgan muttered.

"Yeah, he's a hardass," Booth agreed with a smile. "Sometimes I think he only talks to me since we were both snipers in the Rangers."

"Most folk call Edgerton the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and Yoda," Morgan confided in me with a wicked grin.

Thinking of the intimidating agent as the diminutive Jedi Master put me in a better frame of mind when Edgerton came back.

"Over here," he ordered and gestured with his head that I should follow him.

I obeyed, mostly because I gathered from Morgan and Booth that not only was this guy good, he was probably the best, and he wasn't obligated to help me. If he had a difficult personality, I figured he was somewhat entitled.

When I got to the firing booth Edgerton indicated, I saw that instead of a paper target, he had placed a candle. It was bright, but I could tell that the candle was lit.

"You need adjust your aim to just below where you want to shoot," Edgerton explained to me. "Once you get set, I'm turning the lights off."

"And I shoot the candle?" I asked skeptically.

Edgerton grinned. "You shoot the flame _off_ the candle."

"I don't get it," I admitted honestly.

"With the lights off, you'll only see the flame," Edgerton continued. "Your first instinct will be to aim for the flame, but the trick is to aim for just below the flame, shoot the wick, kill the flame."

It was probably one of the more unorthodox techniques, judging from the looks on Morgan's and Booth's faces, but Edgerton was the instructor for a damn good reason. What he said made a lot of sense.

I donned my goggles and ear muffs, readied my borrowed gun, and took my stance. Edgerton's close, looming presence was actually more steadying than intimidating. He flicked a switch and the overhead lights cut out. Since I didn't hear any shouts of protest from the other booths, I guessed that he had already cleared out any other agents there to practice. I appreciated the gesture.

Sure enough, I saw the flickering spot of orange down the line of the range. I aimed for the base of the glow and squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out and I felt the gun kick back in my hands—when I looked, I saw the candle was still lit.

I bit back a colorful metaphor and waited for Edgerton to speak.

"Almost," he said. "Just a hair lower and you've got it."

With his encouragement, I set up again, aimed for the base, and then just a fraction more lower. The whole room plunged into darkness right after I shot.

"Yes!"

Edgerton flicked the overhead lights back on and after I put the gun down, I tacked him in a hug before he could guess what I was going to do. Luckily, his reflexes caught me before I tumbled to the floor and he patted my back.

"All there is to it," he shrugged once I was on my feet again.

I heard choked back laughter behind me. I guess no one else had ever had the audacity to hug Agent Edgerton before.

"Let me know how it goes," Edgerton said before he nodded farewell to Morgan and Booth. I didn't take it personally.

Booth and Morgan congratulated me and then Morgan escorted me out to my car. We had spent most of the morning together and I didn't want anyone to notice his absence any longer or the jig was up.

I waited until I was driving away to really acknowledge my motivations. Yes, learning how to fight and shoot was about Foyet. Yes, part of me wanted Foyet to come after me again so I could kill him myself, or at least, hurt him very much. I wanted to hurt him like he had hurt me, Hotch, and countless other victims.

But even aside from that, I didn't want to be living on my own and going to school without knowing how to protect myself. I had been helpless when Frank had taken me hostage in front of my mother. Foyet had taken me out with minimal effort. I wasn't paranoid enough to think that another serial killer would target me in my lifetime, but I also wasn't naïve enough to think nothing else would ever happen to me.

I refused to be a victim again.

* * *

Notes:

Okay, now I think I'm happy with it.

Public Service announcement: I strongly believe that every person should know some rudimentary self-defense, but self-defense as I've alluded to here. Self-defense is not about fighting. It's about awareness, prevention, avoiding dangerous situations or escaping them. Yes, you will need to know how to fight back, but the goal, always, is to fight to the point that you can run. ...and that's the end of my soap box.

People seemed to like when I introduced Bones characters, so I brought Booth back for a cameo. For those who don't follow Bones, Agent Booth is recovering from surgery to remove a tumor at the end of Season Four, hence why he was on medical leave and then has to re-qualify for firearms. And while I was adding Booth's cameo, I thought I'd throw another one in for fun. Anyone else watch Numb3rs? Also, the character of Ian Edgerton is played by Lou Diamond Phillips who is smoking hot in my opinion. If you don't watch, there's not a whole lot you need to know about the show.

Hope you enjoyed!

Cantoris


	6. Sub-mediant

_Submediant: Recovery_

"Rachel?"

"Be right there!"

I stood on my tip-toes and finished shelving the stack of books in my arms before coming to the front of the bookstore to answer Reid's voice. The short sleeves of my blouse had ridden up to my shoulders, so I absently pulled them down, my fingers brushing the scar on my left bicep as I made sure it was covered by the sleeve.

I stopped still when I saw the expression on his face, the one that said he was processing a complex equation, but wasn't happy with the result.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" I asked immediately.

And just like that, Reid shook his head, tucked his hair behind his ears, and the expression was gone.

"Nothing. Almost ready to go?"

"Just about," I answered, filing the mystery away for later inspection. "But I was thinking of picking up a drink to go from the Crown."

"Yeah, sure. Based on the current traffic patterns, we have seven minutes before we need to leave to make our appointments. And actually, I calculated a different route from our last trip that should save us twelve minutes."

I was still giggling as I opened the door and held it open as Reid turned himself around on his crutches and started to make his way out of the bookstore. We both bid Izzy good bye and headed to the next door café. The bookstore where I worked was owned by Colin Morris who was friends with Reid and the café was now owned by Colin's daughter, my friend Natasha. Reid and I were frequent fliers at both places.

"What'll it be, you two?" Natasha called out from her spot behind the counter.

"His usual coffee and iced green tea for me, Tasha," I replied.

"Ran out of the iced green tea about an hour ago," Natasha apologized. "How about I ice up some the blend of the day?"

"Perfect," I answered.

Natasha had been working in the café for most of her life when it had been owned by her grandmother, but Matilda Morris had finally retired about a month ago. Natasha was only twenty three years old, but she was truly in her element. Within a minute, she had a tall cup of coffee with plenty of cream and sugar for Reid and another full of ice and her special blended tea for me. The "daily blend" was a special customer secret; the café kept Tazo brand bagged tea out on display, but if you had the Royal Discount for frequent customers, you learned that every day, Natasha brewed her own blend of loose leaf tea and kept warm.

"This is your last appointment, right?" she asked, handing over the drinks. Natasha had even grabbed a bag and slipped in two cherry pastries.

"Rachel's last appointment, I've still got four to go," Reid answered.

The same day that Hotch and I were in surgery for stab wounds, Reid had been shot in the knee on the case the team had been called to solve. Rather than let Reid struggle with the subway to go to his appointments at the hospital, I forced him to give me the days and times for all his appointments and arranged mine to match so I could drive him. Reid had tried only once to convince me that I shouldn't bother, but after I glared at him, he simply thanked me and let it drop. He didn't know, but I was still planning on driving him to his remaining appointments.

Sure enough, with Reid's new directions, we still made it to the doctor's offices in plenty of time. My doctor was running behind, so Reid got called in about fifteen minutes before me. Since my appointment was just to sign me off on a clean bill of health, I still beat him back out to the reception room. I was re-buttoning my shirt over my tank top when I heard the sound of Reid's crutches on the linoleum floor.

That same puzzled expression was on his face when he crutched over to me.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked in concern.

"Oh, nothing new," Reid replied. He did go on to explain his recovery in medical jargon that I had trouble following despite my childhood of listening to my mother.

Reid kept it up even as we got to my car. I stopped paying attention to his words and noticed instead his tone of voice. Reid was a talker, always had been, and always would be, I knew. And over the years, I had learned a lot from him word-dumps. Reid talked when he was nervous, or excited, or just because.

Still, something was different this time.

"Spencer," I interrupted before shifting out of park. "Please tell me what's wrong."

"What makes you think something's wrong?" he asked, trying to sound innocent, but I wasn't buying it.

"Twice now, you have looked at me like there's something huge on your mind, but now you're babbling to distract either yourself, me, or both of us. So what gives?"

"I just...worry," Reid admitted. "About you."

"Spence," I sighed, trying not to feel exasperated. "I'm fine. Really. You don't need to worry about me. What brought this on all of a sudden?"

"You fidget with your sleeves and your buttons," Reid explained.

"So?"

"You're making sure that no one can see your scars, like you want to cover them up so no one can see them, including yourself," Reid went on. A dark look crossed his face. "When Elle was shot three years ago, she did the same thing with her shirts. It was like if she didn't see her own scar, she didn't have to acknowledge what happened to her. Even though denial is a natural state of grief, long term, it isn't healthy."

I gave Reid courtesy of considering his words before I answered. "I don't want people to see me and see my scars first. They still look too…fresh, and I know that people will ask questions that I don't want to explain over and over again. Spencer, I'm about to meet hundreds of new people who will be involved in my life for the next four years at a minimum. They don't need to know about Foyet."

"I thought it might be that," Reid said. "But, you know that you can talk with me or Garcia whenever you need."

"Yeah, I know," I promised him.

I guess Reid wasn't aware of my FBI-led self-defense lessons. That was my method of coping with the trauma. Whenever I sparred with Morgan or Agent Jones, I was reminded of why I was doing it. Every time I felt the urge to call Hotch to talk to him, I had to hesitate and decide if I wanted to risk the inevitable and irrational hurt feelings when he wouldn't answer.

Denial wasn't a luxury I was granting myself.

.

I slammed into the matted floor, feeling all the breath in my body escape violently. I ignored the oxygen deprivation and tried to push past it to roll over to the left.

I didn't roll fast enough. My opponent pinned me to the floor, straddling my hips, locking his calves against my knees to immobilize my legs, and his hands gripping mine like iron. I knew the move to counter this: I was supposed to hook my right leg around his ankle, push up with my right hip to get him off me, and then roll in the opposite direction.

But while my mind knew what to do, my body remembered the last time someone had leaned over me and I was trapped. What little air I had been able to suck in turned into heavy pants as I fought off panicked flashbacks.

Special Agent Adam Jones—who had insisted I call him Adam—sensed that this wasn't just normal frustration and released me.

"Breathe," he reminded me. "Breathe through the panic and focus on your surroundings."

Slowly, I gathered myself, feeling the texture of the mat beneath me, hearing how my breath echoed in the room, and staring at the ceiling above me. This wasn't the first time I had had a flashback during my self-defense lessons, but they were tapering off after two months.

Today, I just couldn't avoid thinking about other things during the lesson, my first mistake. Without my focus, the panic had caught me off guard.

"Better?" Adam asked me calmly.

He hadn't been surprised the first time I had freaked out on him, proof either that Morgan had anticipated the reaction and warned him, or that he was an astute agent who had expected it himself. I had gotten to know the combat trainer pretty well in our twice-weekly sessions, so I was actually betting on the latter.

"Yeah," I grunted, levering myself up. Smart man, Adam didn't offer to help me.

"Do you want to go again or call it a day?" he asked me, leaving the choice up to me.

Originally, my self-defense was supposed to be conducted by Morgan with Adam acting as back up. But after a couple of weeks, Morgan realized just how much he had to cover on the BAU team with Hotch still on medical leave and Reid also on crutches. I wasn't sorry for it since Adam didn't have that same feeling of obsessive and automatic protection Morgan and the rest of the team had for me.

Not that Morgan would have taken it easy on me, but it was just simpler with Adam. As I had discovered with my best friend and former boyfriend, Michael, I really needed simple in my life wherever I could find it.

"Can I bribe you with coffee to call it a day?" I joked.

At first, I had felt like I owed it to the agent for his time in teaching me. I had offered to pay and he refused. No matter how much I questioned him on whether he truly had the time to give me private lessons while still training the current batch of FBI recruits, he always assured me that I wasn't a burden.

So, our compromise was that I introduced him to the Crown Café. If we had the time after one of my lessons, I treated him to coffee or lunch which I got on a discount.

"All right, meet you outside the locker rooms."

I showered quickly and toweled my hair dry. After I was dressed, I caught up with Adam and we walked to the parking garage together. Even in the basement of Quantico, Adam followed me to my car first and watched me get in before he went to his own. Just because he wasn't obsessively protective like the BAU team didn't mean he wasn't still protective.

I parked in my usual place behind the Monarch Bookstore and beat Adam inside the Crown Café. My good friend Natasha was behind the counter, mixing drinks and serving customers. Usually, I would grab a table for Adam and me, but this time I grabbed one of the tall chairs at the counter.

Natasha expertly swept her gaze over me. "Since I know you are currently checking the 'single' box and your last boyfriend lived across the hall from you, please tell me that you are doing a walk of shame for a one-night stand. I would be so proud of you."

I rolled my eyes. I didn't have work that day, so I had only changed into yoga pants, a tank top, and a zippered sweatshirt. Combined with my damp hair and that my face was probably still flushed, I could only laugh at Tasha's joking assumption.

"Well, I was rolling around the floor with a guy," I told her earnestly. "Got pretty physical."

Natasha knew I wasn't looking to date anyone; eliminating romantic complications had been one of the reasons Michael and I had called it off and went back to being best friends. But Natasha also liked to think that she would rub off on me eventually and that I would lighten up. I never had the heart to tell her that I would never lighten up to the point that I would have a new boy almost every month like she did.

I heard the bell ring for the front door and saw Natasha's eyes flick automatically to see who had come in. She turned her attention back to me, paused, and then focused again on the door.

I knew that look. "Aren't you going out with that DJ currently?" I pointed out, trying in vain to head her off at the pass. Much as I loved Natasha and as good as a friend she was to me, she was always going through guys like tissues. I worried that one day it would bite her in the ass.

"Doesn't mean I can't look at the eye candy," Natasha defended herself quietly. "Especially when he's making a beeline for me."

"There you are," a familiar voice said behind me. "No table today?"

"Nah, thought we'd sit at the bar," I replied as Adam took the seat next to me.

Any other girl might have blushed or stammered at being caught ogling. Natasha only smiled. "Rachel, manners," she prompted.

"Tasha, I'd like you meet Special Agent Adam Jones of the FBI," I introduced. "Adam, Natasha Morris, owner of the Crown Café."

"Finally, nice to meet you," Natasha smiled and held out her hand.

"You, too," Adam replied. "Coming in here for the past couple of months, I'm surprised we haven't met before."

"Oh, I'm normally doing lunch prep around this time of day," Natasha explained. "But I'm short on staff so my grandmother's back in the kitchen and I'm handling the front."

"Tell her I'm here so I can say hi," I prompted.

"Soon as I get your drinks started," Natasha promised and suddenly whirled into action.

"Um, we didn't order," Adam said as an aside to me as Natasha mixed espresso, milk, syrups, and ice into a blender.

"We don't have to."

Soon, Natasha had placed two tall, frosted glasses in front of us filled with a frappuccino that Natasha called "The Works," so named because she added pumps of vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, and chocolate syrups to flavor it.

"Whoa," was Adam's immediate reaction after taking a cautious sip. Like most FBI agents, Adam could drink black coffee all day and never notice the hair-raising strength. But I also knew that every time he had come to the café with me, he had always ordered a mocha or latte and eagerly gobbled the sweet pastries.

"Yes, sir," Natasha smirked. "You are welcome."

Two months, and I had never wondered if Adam was single, dating, taken, or gay. Suddenly, I felt like that information was about to become relevant.

I jumped as if my phone had vibrated in my sweatshirt, looked at the blank screen quickly, and then pushed it back into my pocket.

"That's Michael," I announced. "He has to leave his bike at the shop and needs a ride. Adam, do you mind finishing my drink?"

"Um, sure?" Adam agreed uncertainly.

Adam may have been confused by my abrupt departure, but Natasha smiled at me.

Was I worried that Natasha would break Adam's heart? A little. But Natasha had dated some real losers over the years. Maybe if she dated Adam, she could experience what it was like to date an actually decent guy for once.

I knew I was still recovering from all that had happened to me, but little by little, it felt like my life was returning to normal. At least, as normal as it got for me.

* * *

Notes:

I always found it interesting how after "The Fisher King", Elle always wore high-necked shirts, buttoned all the way up. Even with the scar from where she was shot, she could have still left one or two buttons undone and never did. The level of overcompensating, I think, was a brilliant move on the part of the costumers, or whoever made that call. It really played well into her character's unraveling. Rachel is getting some of that treatment here, but since Rachel will be actually working out her feelings and her PTSD, it will stop being a focus at some point.

I also wanted Reid to be the one to point explain this to Rachel since he had tried it before with Elle. I wanted to give Reid a victory, especially since he's more or less Rachel's brother.

One chapter left to go for _Interlude_, and then some time off while I get cracking on _Movement_ _V_. Dear Lord God in Heaven, "100" is coming up sooner than I think. Wish me luck!

Cantoris


	7. Leading Tone

_Leading Tone: Orientation_

I knew that the crowds of students milling around Strader University campus were only freshmen and the upper class volunteers participating in orientation, but after the summer months of being mostly on my own or in a small group, I felt like I was surrounded by millions. The fact that students were already forming groups based on roommates and neighbors meant I would have to approach someone eventually.

But I could always wait to meet people at my classes, too. Or so I excused myself.

I had already gone through the campus tour—not that I needed it since once my college decision had been made, Reid had memorized a map and spent all summer showing me everything I needed to know. I had sat through the welcoming ceremony with the president of the university and other school leaders.

The last thing I had to do was meet with my advisor to sign up for my first semester of classes.

Dr. Richard Ripley was a tall, thin man with white hair, but I estimated his age to be somewhere in his mid- to late fifties.

"Rachel Gideon, flute player correct?" he asked me after shaking my hand and waving me to a seat next to his desk. Rather than sit across from him, the chair was placed so that both of us could look at his computer screen. "And one of our scholarship winners, aren't you?"

"Yes, that's right," I answered, glancing around the room to gauge my surroundings.

Musicians are rarely neat, organized people. It comes with that whole artistic personality that can't be weighed down with minutiae and other mundane considerations. So I wasn't surprised that while the music books and CDs on the shelves were all stacked in mostly neat piles, papers were spread around, pencils were everywhere, and coffee cups on most available surfaces.

"I see from your admission form that your parents have passed away?" Ripley asked me gently.

I had practiced this all summer. "I lost my parents two years ago," I confirmed. "But one of my father's coworkers became my legal guardian and the other coworkers have become my family."

"Wonderful, I hope we'll see them at our concerts and recitals."

My smile was genuine. "Try to keep them away."

"Then let's get your schedule set up. All music majors and minors begin with entry level theory and aural skills classes and music appreciation," Ripley explained to me. "You'll find that a music major is very different from other majors. Most other paths, students can take their general education courses early on and get them done."

"But theory and aural skills are like extra general education courses for music majors," I added.

Ripley smiled. "Exactly right. Now, what we recommend is to take one general course a semester and spread them out over your four years. You can also knock them out over the summer if you wish."

He taped a few keys on his computer and then looked at me in surprise. "Actually, with the AP courses you took in high school, you've covered many of the gen eds. Math, history, foreign language, and one of your sciences. Impressive."

"Thank you. I'm also looking to minor in business," I told him.

"Not interested in being a starving artist?" Ripley joked with me.

"I love performance," I admitted. "But I also like to have a back up."

"That should be easy enough to schedule. The average minor is six to seven classes and with the gen eds you don't have to take, you might not even need summer classes or to overload. Let's set you up with Theory I, Skills I, Musicianship, and Intro to Business. Now, the other quirk of music majors is that rather than have five classes per semester, we have many required credits that are less than a full class, like your private lessons, studio classes, and your performing group, et cetera."

"I saw also in the course catalogue that all music majors are required to have instrumental and vocal credits," I brought up. "There's class voice for instrumentalists and instrumental techniques for singers."

"Yes, that's a three credit class, but another option is to sing in one of the choirs for one credit per semester. That saves you a block of class time for another class. Auditions for the orchestras, bands, and choirs will be held over the next few days. You'll be placed in band or orchestra automatically, but consider auditioning for one of the choirs."

"I've never been much of a singer," I admitted.

Ripley smiled. "But you'll be a good sight reader because of your flute playing."

Singing in a choir for three semesters sounded more manageable than sitting in a classroom three days a week, so I mentally worked choir auditions into my calendar for the next few days.

"And with that worked out, I have an email that says I'm supposed to send you to the campus counselor's office for an appointment."

I frowned. "I didn't sign up for that appointment."

Ripley smiled apologetically. "Someone did."

I had my suspicions about who had arranged this and I debated which of my over protective, overly concerned, and manipulative federal agents I called family had already notified the campus counselors that I might need their services.

The counseling offices were located in the massive athletic building with the other health services. I joked in my mind that it was probably the only time I would set foot in the building. Ripley had written down the name of the counselor I was supposed to see, but I couldn't see the name on any of the doors and there was no one in the entry room to help.

So, I took a chance and knocked on the only unlabeled door I saw.

"Dr. Reeves?" I asked after knocking on the door and poking my head in. I figured I couldn't be the only freshman getting confused.

"Come on in, you must be Rachel Gideon."

Dr. Megan Reeves, who insisted that I call her Megan, was friendly but not too much as she came around from behind her desk, shook my hand, and then gestured to the couch in her office. Opened and half-full boxes were stacked in one corner, but the shelves were full of books, knick-knacks, and photographs.

One of the photographs showed Megan surrounded by men, and one of them was wearing an FBI windbreaker. And it was all made suddenly clear.

"Who called you? Hotch or Garcia?" I asked to get it out of the way. "By the boxes and unnamed door, I'm guessing this is a new job."

Maybe I was being a little to combative, but I wouldn't put it past them to arrange for an undercover agent to get a position at my school. But I was also fed up with the high handed methods they used to interfere in my life at times.

Megan did me the courtesy of answering honestly. "Dr. Spencer Reid, actually. He and I have some mutual friends at CalSci and CalTech. When I was offered a job here at Strader, Dr. Reid heard about it and called me."

"And you were an FBI agent," I guessed. I also realized that from her timeline of the events, her job had come first and then Reid had stepped in. So she wasn't here just because of me.

"I was, I actually learned profiling from your father."

Friends in common with Reid earned her brownie points, reference to my father, not so much. But the former agent showed how good she was at reading my carefully controlled expression.

"I never tried for the BAU because I wasn't sure he and I would get along on a long-term basis. I'm too honest for him."

"Too honest?" I asked out of curiosity.

"I would argue with him when I thought he was wrong," she explained ruefully.

Well, her honesty was slowing winning me over.

"Now, I promise you that I am not here to spy on you," Megan assured me. "And I didn't ask you here because I think you need counseling."

"Then why did you?" I asked.

Megan smiled. "I thought that you deserved to know that you had a friend on campus and that if you ever needed to talk to someone who wasn't on the BAU who understands that life, that I'm available."

Over the years, I had found that I wasn't always comfortable or willing to talk out some of my issues with Hotch, Garcia, or Reid. Mostly because I hated to burden them on top of what they all faced on the job every single day. Michael had always been there for me, but there were some things regarding federal agents that I couldn't really explain well enough to get my point across because he didn't know the Bureau like I did. I hadn't ever considered the possibility of talking with someone who knew what it was like to be an agent, but wasn't so directly involved in my life.

"Spencer told you that he was worried about me, didn't he?"

"A little. He thought that you might need an outsider's perspective after what happened with Foyet."

I said nothing to that.

"Rachel." Megan waited until I met her eyes. "What happened to you is horrible and it says a lot that you've handled it as well as you have. But there's a difference between working through it and pushing through it. I hope you realize that."

I knew that Reid was still worried about how I saw myself physically because I still didn't want my scars to show. I was still feeling distant from Hotch which hurt even though I knew his reasons. And sure, I was probably dangerously close to just blocking out the emotional whirlwind I could still easily slip into.

But could I confide in a stranger? Even if Reid had called her, obviously trusted her. Talking with Reid or Garcia though often made me feel guilty to burden them when they felt badly enough and had everything else to worry about on top of it.

"I think," I started hesitantly. "I think that I might take you up on that."

* * *

Notes:

And that's the last chapter of Interlude done. I still can't tell if my "experiment" is successful. While I've gotten some very wonderful reviews, I didn't notice the same number of responses as I saw in Movement IV. Thoughts from the peanut gallery?

Either way, I will persevere in my Sonata series. We all know what big episode is coming up and as I have experienced in the past with "The Evilution of Frank" and "Faceless, Nameless," I will be on tenterhooks for everyone's reactions when the time comes. I don't have much of an estimate for when I hope to have the first chapter up, but I'm hoping it's in the range of a few months. Keep me on alert!

Now do you all know why I did a quick character cross-over with Numb3rs? Megan Reeves is another character from that show. She was an agent on the major crimes team who specialized in profiling. After the season finale of 2007 (season four), her character resigned from the Bureau to pursue her degree (unnamed), but my head-canon said she would eventually pursue counseling. I also had to have fun with the connection between Reid going to Caltech as a prodigy and another Numb3rs character teaching at CalSci who was also a math prodigy. Again, my head canon is that Reid and Charlie are friendly with each other. She won't be a hugely important character, but I also realized just how perfect this type of character could be for Rachel.

As always, thank you for your continued support and appreciation.

Cantoris


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